As a grumpy old woman in the prime of my pedantry, I have already died on many hills, and I have the scars to prove it. I have sacrificed myself on the battlefield of patriarchy chicken, by walking square into people who stride down the centre of the pavement staring at their phones and expecting everyone else to jump out of their way. I have risked life and limb in a pub full of football fans by declaring my belief that the only “real sports” are running fast, jumping high and throwing or swimming far – the rest are just “games”. And I have driven myself to tears by consistently walking into the same branch of Pret a Manger and ordering the same coffee, please, “and nothing else”, and then standing there blankly when I’m invariably asked, “And anything else?” When it comes to defending arbitrary red lines, my belligerence knows no bounds.
And yet, with Christmas approaching, I have been trembling at the thought of strapping on my armour and fighting yet again for what I truly believe: that meat and fruit should never be served on the same plate. And yes, you perverts, I do mean turkey and cranberry sauce – just stop putting jam on your Christmas dinner!
